The first time I tried making bread, it was a humble loaf of white sandwich bread. I remember carefully measuring the flour, watching the yeast foam in warm water, and kneading the dough until my arms ached. The process was surprisingly physical and demanded patience as I waited for the dough to rise, its slow expansion feeling like a small miracle. When it finally came out of the oven, golden and warm, the smell that filled my kitchen was incredible. The crust was a bit thicker than I intended and the crumb a little dense, but slathering a slice with butter and tasting it was a moment of pure triumph. It was not perfect, but it was mine, and that made all the difference.
I like making bread because it is a grounding and rewarding practice. The act of transforming simple, elemental ingredients—flour, water, yeast, salt—into a nourishing and complex food feels almost alchemical. There is a deep satisfaction in the rhythm of kneading and the quiet anticipation during the proofing stages. It forces me to slow down and work on nature’s timeline, not my own. The final reward is not just the delicious end product, but the entire sensory journey: the feel of the dough, the yeasty aroma during the rise, and the profound sense of accomplishment that comes from creating something fundamental and wholesome with my own hands.